


It Seems to Me (I've Been Gone a Long Time)

by Sage (sageness)



Category: due South
Genre: Canon - TV, Case Fic, Challenge: due South Seekrit Santa, F/M, Gen, Vecchio in Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/Sage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray takes a sip of water and pushes back from the table. She slides up onto a barstool and turns her back to him. That's good--she's not rushing over yelling, "Vecchio!" or anything--but how can he know whether or not she knows?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Seems to Me (I've Been Gone a Long Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SDWolfpup for Due South Seekrit Santa 2008. Warning: violence and sexual content. Many thanks to china_shop and malnpudl for all their great advice! :) Title comes from [Hugh Dillon's "Lost at Sea"](http://www.hughdillon.com/index.php/works-well-with-others/lost-at-sea.html). Here is a [glossary of things specific to the setting and translations of some phrases](http://sageness.livejournal.com/1171870.html) if you're curious.

Flying into Las Vegas, Anita feels a wave of longing for home. México, D.F. is a sprawling giant by comparison, but both cities sit in bowls surrounded by mountains. The relative lack of smog here is amazing. Beside her, Valente is wiping sleep from his eyes. He kisses her and yawns. She looks at him fondly and squeezes his hand.

"Querida," he says, and she presses her shoulder close against his. They've been together six and a half months and he's finally beginning to trust her.

When the plane lands, they go separate ways. Paranoia, she teases him, and he admits it with a grin but he won't budge on this rule. She's to check in to a hotel on the Strip while he is driven to a large house owned by Alberto Trujillo, the gran jefe who runs the second biggest cartel in Mexico. They're friends, the Trujillo and Donato families, so Anita doesn't have to worry about evading their usual entourage to follow him. Her job today is easy: check in, change clothes, and wait for the car to take her to la casa Trujillo.

 

 

Alberto and Graciela are very kind hosts, especially as they're traveling, too. They live in Ensenada, down the Baja coast, most of the year. Or Alberto does. It isn't safe for him to leave the country much, but he makes exceptions for Vegas. Graciela has a sister in Santa Fe and visits frequently. It's easy for her, not having federal warrants on her head.

After dinner at Treasure Island, followed by drinks and a musical show and a familiar rant against El Presidente Fox--which she and Graciela counter with an argument over whether Friends is better in English or español--they finally go to bed. She's exhausted and keyed up at the same time. The odds are low that she'll be recognized by anyone who knows her real identity, but the chance is always there and the cartels get better at playing the intelligence game every day.

"Mmmm, Elena," Valente murmurs as she slides into bed beside him. He feels good against her skin. Warm and sweet-smelling. He's fit for forty-two and dyes the few strands of silver in his hair as black as the rest. When he lapses from Spanish into Italian she tells him, "No hablo esa lenguaje, querido," and he switches back. Or sometimes he puts his mouth on her body part by part and names them in both tongues. She's learning fast.

He keeps her out of his business, but he takes her with him almost everywhere.

Valente isn't small time, but he isn't Mexican, either. He can go back to Spain or Italy and avoid getting caught in a cartel war. But if she can gather enough evidence, and the other agents working the case do their jobs, then they'll be able to break the system.

They're unrealistic hopes to be sure, she knows that. But she doesn't mind. No cop worth their badge is a realist.

 

 

Thursday night and Langoustini's finishing dessert with Chick Ciccarello and Carmine "the Ghoul" Gould, down all the way from Chicago. Chick's a capo, but he's young and his territory is only a fraction of what Ray manages. It's pretty clear he's got ambitions, but supposedly they're only down to play--a treat, the old man sending them off for a long weekend to gamble, go to some shows, and party.

Carmine the Ghoul looks half-dead and hasn't spoken two words since he got here. Story has it half his scars are from getting caught on the wrong side of an explosion and the other half from knife fights when he was a kid. That's not what irks Ray, though; it's that the guy doesn't even try not to be a creepy son of a bitch.

Ray knows every word he says will make it back to the old man's ears. Everything the Bookman does makes its way back to the big boss, but that's as it should be. Ray shows them the Strip. He tells them which casinos to stay the hell out of and sends Tano to ferry them between showgirls and betting tables. Tano will get them a couple of girls, too, for the full hospitality treatment. Can't nobody say the Bookman didn't go all out, even for Carmine.

"Sure you won't come with, Mr. Langoustini?" Chick asks.

Ray shakes his head. "I can go to a show whenever I feel like it and I've seen all these. Besides, you guys'll have more fun without me dragging you down."

Chick makes the token protests, but in ten minutes they're gone and Ray's breathing easier than he has in hours.

That's when he sees her. For a minute Ray wonders if maybe he had too much wine with dinner, and that's not hard if you're drinking three hundred dollar cabernets, but after a moment of studying the flame of the candle on his table, Ray looks across the room again. She's turned sideways now; she's wearing a dress, black with floral accents, and she's wearing it well. Her wrist is resting lightly on the bar rail and she's watching the door. Ray takes a sip of water and pushes back from the table. She slides up onto a barstool and turns her back to him. That's good--she's not rushing over yelling, "Vecchio!" or anything--but how can he know whether or not she knows? And what the hell is a Mexican government agent doing in Vegas anyway?

Ray gestures and Sal's at his elbow in a moment. Ray would rather have Tano, but no way in hell is he sending Chick and the Ghoul out on the town with Sal. No telling what havoc they might wreak.

As Ray and Sal approach the aisle next to the bar they're momentarily cut off. It's a big guy in a fancy suit, not taller than Ray but thicker through the body. "Elena, mi bella, I'm sorry to be late."

She stands up and he leans in to kiss her. Her eyes flick past his shoulder to Ray, then she tilts her head coyly and steps back. "Perhaps next time I won't wait." She pivots, drawing him with her so that Ray and Sal have room to slip by unnoticed. Behind him, Ray hears the maitre d' say, "Mr. Donato, madam, if you will please follow me? Your table is ready."

 

 

The first time Anita sees Ray Vecchio in Las Vegas, it takes her a moment to place him. For months, she's been memorizing the names and faces of gangsters and jefes from all over the world. The American agent mentioned a highest level operation here. It was all "need to know", and she didn't. She doesn't know if they have Langoustini locked up or if he's dead, but Vecchio's changed in the last year. He's denser, like he's been working out or like he wears body armor every day under his fancy suits and has gained shoulder muscle from the effort. He's harder, too. A hard guy in the sense the mobsters say. She can believe he's the Bookman, even though she knows it's an op.

She has the same sources the FBI does, more or less. Vecchio probably doesn't know that.

 

 

The next morning the Bookman knows where to find every hotel guest calling herself "Elena" in the entire city. The one also known as Anita Cortéz has a room at the Stardust, but she didn't stay in it last night.

Valente Donato is supposed to split his time between Milan and Barcelona. His father knew John Gotti but Valente isn't known to have made any permanent oaths. Still, the guy's got family who are wise guys, both in the States and in Europe, and as far as Ray's concerned, Donato being here stinks like day-old fish in the middle of the desert.

Wherein lies the problem. He can't pick up the phone and call Davis, since Ray never knows who might be listening--the old guy's a paranoid son of a bitch and would not shy from tapping Langoustini's phones. He obviously can't call up Anita. He could make it known to Donato that the Bookman wants him over for dinner, as a gesture from the family, but that'd be a dangerous stretch.

He calls Tano into the office. "You hear anything about Valente Donato coming to town?" he asks.

"No, boss."

Hmph. Figures. And Tano's the smart one, too. Ray's going to have to call Tony to look into it, which means Ray's curiosity will get passed up the food chain instead of ignored as one of the Bookman's passing whims. "Did our guests have fun last night?"

Tano's lumpy face breaks into a wide grin. "Oh yeah. Bally's, Caesars, Bellagio, and MGM Grand. They took the suite there and Sal called Ginger and Emerald, you know, since they do a good poker face and it being the Ghoul."

Ray's nodding. "Yeah, I bet they had a good time." He waves Tano to a chair by the open double doors to the office, close enough to call out for and not so close Tano'll hear every word. Ray'd had that party himself back at the start--the recovery from the car accident called for the Bookman to celebrate, and Ray needed as much current intel as he could get his hands on. But these days he gives the dirty side of hosting to the boys. Girls talk to each other--hell, any moron with sisters knows this--so Ray keeps two on a semi regular rotation for himself. Simple, safe, easy.

He picks up the phone and calls Tony Fiorelli, professional fly-on-the-wall for the Iguana family. When the pleasantries are over, Ray says, "So what's the story with Valente Donato being in town?"

Tony didn't know he was. "I'll call you back, Mr. Langoustini," he says, fear audible through the telephone. "I'll get on this right now."

"Quietly, Tony," Ray says in a warning tone.

"You got it, boss. You got it."

Ray doesn't have the patience to wait. Sure, Anita is a professional and has been a good cop for a long time, but there are coincidences and then there are Fraser-like levels of unlikelihood. Ray is pretty certain he knows which one he's looking at.

"Tano. Keep an eye on Chick and Carmine, and get a nap--you look terrible. Oh, and I don't know when I'll be back, but if Juanita could do that shrimp cannelloni again and put it in the fridge, she'd make my taste buds very, very happy."

"Sure, boss."

"Louie!" Ray bellows.

A moment later, there's a clatter of footsteps on the Spanish tile in the hallway and Luigi appears in the doorway. He reminds Ray too much of Louis Gardino, what with the red hair and Italian blood. "What can I do for you, boss?" he says.

"You're with me today," Ray says. "Am I still playing golf with old man Scarpelli tomorrow?"

"As far as I know."

Ray stops his hand in midair. "As far as you know. Let's _hope_ you know."

Luigi backpedals fast. "I mean I haven't heard anything to the contrary. It's on your schedule for 8am. Sir."

Ray gives Luigi and Tano a thin smile. "Better."

"Do you want Sal, too?" Tano asks, reaching for the phone.

"Nah, just Mikey." Ray hopes he isn't making a huge mistake, but he won't need two bodyguards for this. He thinks. Probably. He drums his fingers on his desk. "Ah, what the hell, get Sal," he says, knowing it'll make the boys happier if nothing else.

 

 

Ray settles at his desk in the Bookman's suite at the Tropicana. Sal goes for lunch and Luigi sits in the front room. This is where Ray does most of the Bookman's work. He takes out Langoustini's little notebook computer and starts updating his spreadsheets with the latest revenue. The accounting guy does this, too, but these files are the ones the FBI gets.

In the last week, the Iguana outfit had hijacked two big-rigs: one was loaded with stereo equipment, the other with spare parts for Hondas. The narcotics haul is smaller than Ray thought it would be, which he's glad for as a cop but worries about as Langoustini. The old guy sure isn't going to like it, and Ray's going to have to do something about it.

The best numbers are the girls, as usual. A hundred and eighty pages of escort services in the Las Vegas phone book and more than forty percent are owned by the Iguana family. Thousands of girls. Several hundred boys. More boys with tits and no adam's apples than Ray thought existed, and he will never understand the "she-male" thing, but money's money. And the money's as ridiculous as the size of the Bookman's estate and the number of people on his payroll. Said accounting guy, two lawyers, a doctor and nurse, two pilots, a famous gourmet chef, two computer nerds, household staff, and all these aren't even technically in the mob. You have to add to that the soldiers and the made men--the numbers are staggering--and the whores making the money have no idea how many mouths their tricks are feeding.

Ray knows he ought to be disgusted. When he worked Vice all those years ago, he would've been disgusted. But the prostitution and decency laws are different here. The culture's different. Sin fuels the economy, and except for his handler and a Mexican cop, nobody here's ever heard of a Chicago flatfoot called Ray Vecchio.

 

 

It's past 2pm when Anita returns to the Stardust, and Ray thanks his lucky stars that Davis' connections are on the ball. He doesn't know how to play it yet. He's got to get away from the boys, except he can't do that. He's got to get her away from Valente D. Fraser would have a good solution. Fraser would simply call her up and ask her to meet him in the nearest broom closet. But Ray isn't supposed to be thinking about Fraser. Not if he wants to stay alert and alive and on the ball. He can't let the yearning get a foothold, otherwise he'll start thinking how long he's been here in the dark.

Shoving aside memories of Fraser and broom closets, Ray realizes Anita might have already figured out his cover. He can't remember if anyone said his name in her hearing. She's surely got connections of her own, right? If she's playing Valente Donato, she'd better.

 

 

The Stardust, old dinosaur that it is, only has a fraction of the number of restaurants and bars inside as the brand-spanking new Bellagio. To the young kids it looks like a retirement home, and to Ray it looks like a who's who of aging characters he has to schmooze out of respect, as they sit at their poker tables pickling their livers and reminiscing about the good old days.

It isn't what you'd call fast.

He finally catches sight of her in the atrium. A crowd of drunken college kids separates them, and Ray stifles a laugh at the angry, panicked look on Luigi's face. Like they're impeding Luigi's view of the main concourse on purpose.

"Where to now, boss?" asks Sal.

Ray nods toward the little cabaret on the right. It's out of date compared with the rest of the place, so it only fares well with the blue-haired set and the Kerouac wannabes. Onstage there's a piano player and a blonde torch singer. Between them and the door, the haze of smoke is so thick it looks like the singer's standing behind a gray gauze curtain. Ray swallows hard and tries not to cough.

Over on the left-hand side of the long room, Anita's seated at the bar.

"Get a table," Ray tells Luigi and Sal.

She doesn't look completely out of place, but it's a near thing. She's in a black pantsuit again, like when he first met her, so she looks like a corporate exec or a salesperson playing hooky from a convention. If she's packing heat, Ray can't see it.

The Bookman shakes the barkeep's hand; his name is Barney and he's been here since the place was built, if not before. An old-fashioned glass of the house's best bourbon appears, and Ray nods in appreciation. This job definitely has its perks. After a few moments, he turns to Anita, sitting two stools away. "To the lady," he says, lifting his glass in her direction.

Her lashes flutter downward and she smiles slightly. She may even be blushing. "Thank you, and to you," she says, raising her own glass. The drink is clear and fizzy and might be anything from 7-Up to a vodka tonic, Ray has no idea. No, that isn't true. He's pretty sure it's plain soda.

"Are you waiting for somebody, or can I entice you into sharing a table with me for a little while?

"I..." She hesitates, glancing around, but apparently decides it's okay because her next words are, "I suppose I could do that, yes."

Ray smiles the Bookman's most charming smile, selling it for Sal and Luigi's benefit, and leads the way to a table a little closer to the stage than the boys are sitting. It's private, but close enough to them that Sal won't get uptight about it. Ray takes a chair with his back to the wall and his shoulder toward Sal. Anita sits on his left, with her back to the boys and to the door. Huh.

"Armando Langoustini," Ray says, offering his hand.

"Elena Calderón." She shakes his hand and takes a sip of her drink.

"We both seem to be working," he says, leaning in so she can hear him over the music. She nods. "I don't have a lot of time but the goons will leave me be for a little while."

"Can you get away?" she asks.

"Nope, not a chance," he says cheerfully. "A guy can't even take a shower without them knowing about it."

Her eyes sparkle a little as she tsks. "That's sad."

"What's with Donato?" Ray says, cutting to the chase.

"Armando," she answers carefully, "if I tell you that, there could be blood on my hands. Yours, too."

"He lives in Spain. What the hell is he doing here?"

Anita shoots him a look. Ray holds it, letting himself stare into her eyes for a long moment. It's their old battle of wills all over again, and he remembers how well that worked out before. Ray relaxes, smiling. "It's nice to see you again, you know. A big surprise, I admit, but nice. Did they promote you along with the commendation?"

Anita's face softens, too. "Special task force. A different special task force." She sighs. "Corruption in the Federales, the judiciary, politicians, military, policía, you name it. They're a powerful organization."

"That sounds fascinating," Ray says into a lull between songs.

"Medical equipment sales can be very lucrative, actually. You might be surprised."

"And you enjoy it? You're doing well for yourself?"

She nods. He'd forgotten how pretty she is. Her eyes are large and dark, a little tense around the edges but no worse than when they'd faced LaCroix's homemade landmine together. "It's good. I enjoy having a worthwhile career."

Ray inclines his head. "Good, good for you. Have you been in the business long?"

"Sales? Years, but I only moved to medical equipment a few months ago." The pianist picks up a lively old Billy Joel tune, and Ray almost doesn't hear her say, "Are you all right? Overall, I mean?"

Ray tilts his head slightly in a hint of a shrug. "It's nice to talk to a beautiful woman with a brain--I don't get much of that lately--not to mention a friendly face."

"I could try to send word to Fra--"

"That would be a bad idea," Ray says, cutting her off. He doesn't want to hear the name spoken aloud, not here. "For everybody."

Anita nods.

"Who's Donato tied to?" he asks, but the pager on Anita's belt is buzzing.

She reads the display and sighs. "I'm sorry, I have to go. I would like to stay longer, but it's for work. Thank you for the company."

Ray captures her hand and presses a soft kiss to the knuckles. "Believe me, Ms. Calderón, the pleasure was mine."

She flushes slightly, gathers her purse, and is gone before he knows it. He can't believe he didn't get anything useful out of her, but the smile was nice.

Ray drains his glass and wanders over to the boys' table. "You two done here?"

 

 

Vecchio looks tired, she thinks, when he follows her into the little oldies club. He's charming as the devil himself, and yet his eyes are so sincere when he kisses her knuckles that for a moment she wishes she could embrace him. It's lonely work to be undercover. You forget who you are. But she has no excuse for Elena Calderón to know Armando Langoustini, or to continue their acquaintance after this encounter.

She wonders if he'll find a way to bump into her. She hopes not. She's already on shaky jurisdictional ground; muddying Valente's business up with an American federal investigation will make it even worse.

The page she received while they talked is from José, her boss. He is both her boss on this special task force and her boss at the medical technology supply, so she's rarely completely without backup.

She goes back upstairs before calling him.

"Elena, buenas tardes," he says. "I was starting to worry." She bites her tongue. There may not be time to bitch him out for being so típico right now. He isn't as bad as most men she's had to work with, at least. "Everything's fine," she assures him. "Tonight we go to Cirque du Soleil. I think there may be a meeting there, or possibly at dinner."

"Hmm," he says in that way of his that she hates. He sounds worried and patronizing and sweet all at once. She wonders briefly whether to tell him about Vecchio, then decides against it. La mordita works with nearly everyone in the Mexican government. In a poor country, everyone has a price, everyone who faces a question of plata or plomo, pay up or get a bullet in the brain, pays one way or the other. Even her old mentor El Halcón finally took a bullet for his principles.

"José, it will be fine," she insists. "I'll call by mid-afternoon tomorrow."

"You'd better," he answers, and she can hear the smile in his voice. It helps her breathe easier.

 

 

Back at the office, Ray reads the paper and tries to figure out what the hell Anita's working on.

"Tony, talk to me," Ray says when Tony Fiorelli finally calls back.

"Sorry, boss, I would have called sooner, but I don't read Spanish so good and I didn't want to bring anyone else in on this." Ray waits. Tony clears his throat. "Right, anyway, it looks like Donato's trying to make a deal with the Mexicans."

"I figured that much out already, genius. Do you know _which Mexicans?"_

"Uh..."

"Do you know if Valente's getting in bed with a cartel or buying cops?"

"Well, my guess is he's trying to do both."

"But you don't know. Do you know which outfit he's making deals for?"

"It's too soon, boss. I don't have any guys on the inside with him, he's from too far away, you know?"

"Hmph." Ray scrubs a hand over his head and figures he'll risk it. "What about the woman? He's here with some dame, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, suddenly more enthusiastic. "Name's Elena Calderón. Girlfriend. She's Mex, not Spanish. Sells hospital supplies or something. She's nobody."

"That doesn't help me, Tony. Find out what the hell he's doing here and do it quiet."

"Could be he just came to see Vegas?"

Ray snorts. "Yeah, keep in touch."

 

 

The next day Elena's supposed to go shopping with Graciela at the designer boutiques on the Strip. Anita's been looking forward to it--with the wives and girlfriends in the organization, all she has to do is bond with them over how annoying the hours and lack of privacy are--some women are always happy to complain about their husbands--and within half an hour, she has solid proof or exoneration for nearly everybody. Not that they'll testify, but it shows the prosecutor what evidence he needs to get.

Plans change on the way downstairs to breakfast. "Marcos called!" Alberto shouts from the big granite bar next to the small dining area. "He's coming tonight, so we have to iron things out today."

"Ah, bueno!" Valente says, smiling. Anita doesn't know for sure who Marcos is. There are three different men it might be. She has to find a way to stay in the house today instead of going into the city.

In the end she claims a migraine, faking a little nausea and dizziness, and begs off to go back to bed. It isn't the best solution, but at least she'll be under the same roof.

 

 

The deal, she learns, is simple. Valente is here to set up a direct distribution channel from Mexico to Italy. Alberto's people need weapons, Valente's people have a lot of money to buy guns. She only wishes she could get it on tape, but it's impossible. Maybe she'll be able to find paper records later.

The next day, she spends a small fortune--on shoes mostly, as she won't let herself buy Italian clothes outside of Italy. On the ride home, she sees a police car stopped outside a casino. Two cops are on the sidewalk ushering a group of wayward panhandlers to their back seat. No begging allowed, not on this end of the Strip at least. If the beggars are lucky, the police will drive a few miles north and let them out. If they're very lucky, one of them will give them twenty dollars and drop them at an IHOP. Anita wonders if it will happen like that, and then she puts it out of her mind. Graciela is telling her about her niece's little boyfriend and how cute they are together.

 

 

Ray doesn't believe Tony when he says nothing's going on. "You mean nobody's talking yet," he says.

"Ahh, well, that? That may be true, boss," Tony concedes.

 

 

"How does it work?" Valente asks.

"Oh, you're going to love this," Alberto says with enthusiasm. "See, with NAFTA, we make all these products now that get sent north. Down in the south, we take the drugs and package them up like toys or mufflers--whatever shipment is going. Then when they get close to the border, after the last search by the Mexican authorities, we repackage them as something else. The border patrol can never check every case in the container, no?"

Anita slipped downstairs when she heard someone say that the boss' meeting had started. Now she's tucked into a nook in the hallway thanking the Blessed Virgin that the office is between the stairs and the kitchen.

"Now, flying the goods to Italy, we'll need you to smooth things with customs on arrival."

"No sooner said than done, my friend," Valente says.

"And the weapons?"

There's the sound of ice tinkling in a glass, then Valente's voice. "There are several ways. It depends on the volume being transported. A few crates of grenades, we can buy in Texas and fly them to you in a private plane. If you want body armor for two hundred men, we should forge an order through the police and it will be no problem."

"And five hundred AR-15 rifles?"

"Would certainly attract someone's notice if shipped all at once to the same place. Now, if we deliver portions to different parts of Mexico, then no one's the wiser."

Alberto's chuckling, satisfied. Anita knows the last question was a test. It isn't hard to smuggle five hundred assault rifles, but Valente's correct: doing it all at one time is a bad risk. Good smugglers are sneaky. Alberto knows this.

Somewhere a clock chimes. Anita realizes she's late to call José. The men are discussing locations. Graciela is watching her telenovelas. The men will be at this all afternoon, until too much beer and too many fajitas declare it time for siesta. From the office comes a roar of laughter, then a door behind her opens and Graciela appears in the hall.

Anita puts on a wan smile and walks toward her. "I woke up and wanted a drink, and I just realized I was supposed to telephone my boss this morning. Can I borrow your phone, please?"

Graciela squeezes her shoulders like Anita's an errant little sister. "Pobrecita, of course you can. Is your head any better?"

"A little, yes," Anita says, pressing her temple. "I think the nap helped."

"Good!" Graciela shoos her ahead into the kitchen, extolling the virtues of Ana Teresa, the cook. Ana Teresa is, indeed, at work on a massive luncheon for them. Graciela points to the phone next to the refrigerator and busies herself with pouring a Dos Equis and nibbling from Ana Teresa's work in progress.

Obviously, a little privacy is too much to ask for. Anita dials the unsecured number and leaves a message. "Bueno, this is Elena. I know I was supposed to call this morning but I woke up with a migraine and slept in. I'm at a friend's right now, but I'll be back at the hotel later if you need to reach me." She hangs up and turns to see Graciela at the counter stealing bits of cheese from a large platter. "That sounded like I woke up with a hangover, didn't it?"

The women laugh. Graciela pulls a bottle from the small refrigerator in the kitchen island. "Have a beer, you'll feel better," she says. What the hell, Anita thinks, and lets Graciela pour.

 

 

Two weeks go by before the Bookman gets the call from Tony affirming that he was right. Donato's running drugs to Italy. Tony can't check into it any farther without giving away the Bookman's interest, though. "What do you want me to do, boss? Do I leave it or let on it's something you're watching?"

"Leave it," Ray says, resigned. He's got his hands more than full already. Besides, Anita left town last week; nothing he can do will help her now.

 

 

_  
Three months later_

Twelve miles out in the desert it's thirty degrees colder than in the city. The mountains are snowcapped and the frozen ground crackles underfoot as the little bits of ice between the gravel snap and pop.

"Really, Mr. Langoustini, you don't gotta get out of the car." Sal's wringing his hands like a dope, but Sal _is_ a dope, hence Ray being here at all.

"Get him out of the trunk, Tano."

Mikey waits for Tano's ready signal and pops the latch. The car's still running; Mikey's got the headlights off and Sal's switching on the camp lantern he'd brought. Inside, Paul Romero is curled up in a ball, covering his head with his arms. It smells like he's pissed himself.

Tano grabs Romy by the belt and hauls. Romy shrieks through his gag when the seam of his pants crushes his balls. Ray doesn't let his wince show. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and waits for Tano to stand Romy up and hold him steady.

"Get the gag." Sal rips the tape off and fishes the blood-streaked handkerchief out of Romy's mouth. Looks like the guy's going to need some dental work.

"Romy--" Ray begins.

"Please, Mr. Langoustini, "I'll do anything you say. Anything."

There's no moon tonight. Ray's pretty sure that if he got a little further away from Vegas' gaudy light, he'd be able to see as many stars as there were those nights up in Canada.

"Shut up."

"This thing," Ray says, gesturing at the Mojave Desert around them, "this thing isn't just about the girls, you see. Girls want to work, great, but you go and bring girls up from Latin America and promise them jobs--legit jobs--and they end up chained to a bed? I thought about taking your balls, Romy. I did. But I think maybe this was somebody else's idea and you're just the schmuck doing the dirty work."

Romy starts to sink to his knees, but Tano holds him up by the biceps. Ray knows Bolaño's the brains of Romy's organization but he's heard what they do down in Mexico and Colombia and Romy may or may not have been the bright bulb that brought this thing to Vegas.

Ray catches Tano's eye and nods. Tano squeezes Romy's shoulders so hard Romy sprouts tears. "Last chance," Ray says. Romy squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lips. Ray shrugs. "You're out of the out-call business, which--hey--means more for the Iguana family, but you're also a sick fuck, Romy." Ray lowers his voice. "Sal, take his shoes off."

"Boss?" Sal starts to ask, but he hits the dirt when he sees Ray's glare. He scrabbles at Romy's shiny wingtips until they're upturned in the dust.

"Socks, too."

Sal lifts Romy's pants leg, unsnaps the old-fashioned sock garters and yanks down the flimsy trouser socks.

Ray pulls Romy's wallet out of his own inside pocket. He's taken everything but Romy's driver's license and the photos of his wife and kids. Ray hands it to Sal, who puts it in the pocket of Romy's pinstripe suit jacket. The guy's already shivering and the piss stain down the front of his pants can't be helping any.

"Maria's a real cute kid," Ray says approvingly. "That's your little girl, right? She's got her mother's looks."

"Please," Romy says, "don't hurt her. Leave my family out of this."

Ray gestures at Sal to pick up the discarded shoes and socks, and starts walking toward the car door. "Tano, let him go. Romy ain't going to do nothing. Are you, Romy?" Tano gives Romy a little shove and he stumbles, landing on his ass on a spindly desert shrub. Romy yelps. Ray gets in the car and lowers his window. "Watch out for the cactus," he says. "And the cliffs. Not to mention the scorpions, snakes, and mountain lions."

Tano grabs the lantern, and when the boys get in the car, Mikey spins a wide donut and points them back toward the city. After several minutes, Ray says to Sal, "You kill a guy, you get the cops' attention and you get the Feds all over me. You let a guy go so he can tell his story to his boss, the Iguana family makes a point."

"Yes, boss," Sal answers.

"But what about the snakes and stuff?" Tano asks.

"Snakes are hibernating this time of year, you dumb goombah."

"What about the mountain lions?" says Sal.

Ray shrugs. A moment passes and he says, "Romy's a stringy little bastard. Maybe they'll think he ain't worth the effort."

The boys laugh. Ray leans back in his seat and hopes Romy's smart enough to find his way down-slope to the highway before exposure kills him. There probably aren't any mountain lions this close to the city, but who knows. Ray will have to get a signal to Davis to check out the area, just in case Romy can't find the road.

 

 

Anita's on a mountain in the Italian alps dressed in a ski suit and trying not to fall on her butt in the snow. "You can do it, Elena!" Valente calls from ten meters away. "Just slide forward."

"Why was the ice skating easier?" she calls back.

His answer is a garble of Italian dialect. He uses it more now that she's able to understand most of his proper Italian. She probably doesn't want to know what he said anyway.

"Come on!" he shouts.

She grits her teeth, hyperaware of the bodyguards stationed around them and the other guests at the resort looking on. If this is what it takes, she tells herself, then this is what it takes. She takes a breath, bounces a little on her skis, and goes.


End file.
